Chords and Discords (32 page)

“I have contacts, sir!” Bairstowe’s voice was cracked, hysterical. “I can get you money. As much money as you like.”

“Thank you but no.” I had already had ten guineas from Armstrong for the deed, and I still had the prospect of William Bairstowe’s thirty guineas. Especially when I told him
what had happened to his brother. Though perhaps I was being optimistic in expecting Bairstowe to keep his bargain. He would probably say, in his slurred, almost incomprehensible speech, that the
maid wrote the notes and I have not apprehended her, so therefore he will not pay.

The cobble was heavy in my hands. I rested it on the parapet of the bridge. Below ran the dark water, untouched by the moonlight, deep and tidal and impenetrable. Once at the bottom of that,
Edward Bairstowe would see no one, hear no one, talk to no one, for the rest of his years as a spirit.

“I can get you money!” the spirit said hysterically. “I know where fortunes are buried!”

“No doubt,” I said. “But that knowledge will not save you, sir. I told you, I want justice. But most of all, I find myself simply wanting to rid the world of you.”

And with that, I opened my hands.

The stone dropped. Leaning over the parapet of the bridge, I heard Bairstowe’s despairing cry all the way down, until the splash, and the momentary blossom of white, as the stone crashed
into the river.